


Coming of Age

by neuroglam



Series: Nikiforov/Plisetsky Translations [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 21:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10053017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/pseuds/neuroglam
Summary: Written for Odnostrochniki, prompts«2-84. Victor/Yuri. Victor blows Yuri in a public place (dressing room, restaurant bathroom, empty roo in someone else's house, dark corridor in some kind of public venue».«2-39. Yuri/Victor. First time, Victor bottoms, teases and gives directions, Yuri's angry but listens and enjoys himself».





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Совершеннолетие](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9369440) by [Olivin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Olivin/pseuds/Olivin). 



> The fic is tagged and summarized as the original author intended. By reading, you assume all responsibility for what you find herein.

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Please [ kudo the original author](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9369440) whose Yuri is an absolute delight of a vicious, trash-talking piece of shit that still manages be sweet and vulnerable, and whose Victor is full of himself but also witty and indulgent (and also I suspect a little bit of a liar but interpretations may vary >.>)

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Drunk Katsudon is hanging all over my guy, and I feel a pleasant warmth in my pants. In my childhood, this used to mean I’d peed myself, but now that I’m of age, I’m almost hard. Chris floats by, and even _his_ ass looks attractive. This is telling, given he’s a flaming fag and usually makes me want to barf.

Katsudon, just as tellingly, tries to crawl into Victor’s pants. It sometimes looks like he gets plastered just so he can get his hands on Victor. Like clockwork—every Friday, drunk like shit. It’s fun to watch; it’s good that he figured he’ll coach in St. Petersburg and not in, say, Chelyabinsk.

It was even better when he used to weep in the toilet.

I once asked Victor if he’d ever fucked Katsudon. Victor said he’d tried, but he was too drunk and couldn’t get it up. I kinda sympathized with him: senior citizens lead shitty lives, it’s common knowledge. I told him that, too—and he made me take it almost dry. Right before the Russian nationals, the spiteful old goat.

Victor is _this_ close to losing his pants, so it’s time to walk over and protect my dignity. _My_ dignity—Victor’s is beyond salvation. He would have done a naked photoshoot once if it wasn’t for how Yakov sorted him out with his “slap behind the neck, funding, Skating Federation” magic.

I sway as I make my way to Victor, practically fall on him, and announce that Chris has one hell of an ass. Victor says that the three of us should fuck—it’s not like Chris’ll say no. Katsudon moos in protest but looks like he wants to join in. Victor grins, smug and happy, and I feel like I’m the senior wife in his harem or something. But I figure, given how pickled his brain is, I should at least exercise my veto rights. At this point, Katsudon and Chris’ ass can go get screwed—who by whom, they’re gonna have to sort out themselves—and I drag Victor to the bathrooms.

I wasn’t even going to celebrate this blasted coming-of-age—I thought I'd get down to Moscow to visit grandpa—but Yakov said, “training” and Victor said he’d put out. But judging by his moronic drunken mug, he has once again forgotten his promise.

I shut us in the nearest stall and go for my pockets before he catches on what I’m looking for. I find a handkerchief, tram pass, some receipts—all sorts of shit—and even some tiger stickers—but no condom. Then I stick my hand in Victor’s pocket and land on a full package. The fucking randy goat.

Lube Victor doesn’t carry, like the droopy ballsack that he is. I decide I’m going for his ass regardless—it’s not like he’s got quads to do tomorrow. So I bend him over the toilet and pull his pants down.

I can’t get it in. Fuck.

When my dick yet again slides right past his asshole and slaps into his thigh, I’m close to fucking tears. Victor only laughs quietly. A goat, he's a fucking goat...

But turns out that the goat blows very well. The damned rubber is only in the way now so I try to tell Victor to get it off, but I can only moan quietly and clutch his hair.

“You’re… getting bald,” I say.

Victor pulls on my dick so hard he almost tears it off, then swallows it down.

I tried to preserve the sad dregs my pride. I really did.

The tiles are like the ocean, and I grab the toilet like a life buoy. The condom hits the floor with a ringing slap, and I really hope no one’s in line for our stall. In their shoes, I wouldn’t want to look at some rando’s come either.

Victor straightens his still hard dick in his trousers and buttons his pants. All of this is fucking awkward, so I offer:

“Listen, let me…”

He tilts his head, gives me an unexpectedly sober look and winks. “You can have another try tomorrow.”

The fucking asshole.

***

I wake up on a folded-out Ikea couch, in Otabek’s arms. My head hurts. Otabek’s hand probably hurts, too, where I’d put my head while I slept. Victor, it seems, went to walk his dog about an hour ago and must have greeted us on the way out. And the fact that his guy is sleeping wrapped up with some other dude, of course, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Otabek, in my opinion is, like, fucking outstanding: reliably ranks in the top six, doesn’t drink so always ferries all of us boozers home, collects motorbikes, and his family owns an oil well or something, so they’re fucking loaded. In addition, his sands aren’t running out, unlike a certain balding champion’s. I unloaded all of this on Victor once and asked him why on earth I should choose him. Victor just shrugged a shoulder and said, “Well. I’m better.”

I didn’t have anything to say to that.

Fuck.

Out-fucking-standing Otabek—has a nice ring to it—is making me a most delicious breakfast from whatever junk he finds in Victor’s fridge, and sets off for his plane to warm and welcoming Kazakhstan. I want to go, too—have wanted since the day I arrived in St. Petersburg. Only a cold-blooded frog like Victor could possibly like the constant grey and the rain.

So I quickly scribble a note on a torn-out piece of paper and glue it with chewing gum to the mirror—exactly where Victor the Peacock’s gonna see it—and I catch up with Otabek on the stairs.

I don’t fly to no Kazakhstan.

Of-fucking-course.

I’ve forgotten my passport, my bank card is wherever I’ve lost it while drinking last night, and there’s no one I can call: Baranovskaya would stuff me where the sun don’t shine, and Victor wouldn’t give a shit even if I were to fuck off to Antarctica to develop ice skating among the penguins.

And now here is Victor himself, communing with a bag of chips in the armchair, watching some crap on his tablet—and to think that I spent all day at a cat exhibition for the express purpose of avoiding him.

“Oh, you flew back already?” The crap on the tablet looks like it’s over. Victor raises his eyes. “Were the Kazakhs not properly welcoming?”

I toss my coat at his face but Victor manages to turn, then catches my leg and pulls. I almost bash my nose in the table, but at the very last moment lean backwards and manage to land ass-first on his lap.

Victor moans dramatically and complains that I’ve insulted his dignity—fucking precious; like he’s got any.

“Of course I’ve got dignity.” Victor breathes in my ear, and I understand that I’m to start whispering. In the apartment next to my grandpa’s is an ancient deaf hag, and sometimes at night you can hear her in the bathroom, talking to herself and narrating the entire process. I don’t want to end up like that—I’d rather shoot myself before I start telling the entire building how poorly I shit.

“You wouldn’t know dignity if it but you in the ass.”

“Really?” Victor lightly pinches my belly and laughs. “Sour much?”

Fucking asshat.

I kick him in the knee—the bad one, looks like; he fucking deserves it, the colossal shithead—but he just twists my arms harder.

“If you keep squirming I might just forget about my promise.”

Oh, go to hell. I don’t need you to find someone to fuck.

That’s what I should have told him—and not timidly follow him into the bedroom and start rubbing lube into his ass.

Altogether, this should feel nice for him— _I_ usually like it—though I grant you I’m probably crap at it. But Victor lies like a log and looks like he’s about to start snoring.

“Did you die of old age or something?” I slap his ass, but he knocks off my arm.

“I’m waiting to see what’s first: the lube’s over, or you dig a tunnel through my ass.”

And here I was trying to be careful.

Putting it into Victor while sober is no trouble at all. Suddenly, I feel like strangling him—because for two fucking years, he fucked with my head instead of letting me fuck him. Doesn’t help how he bounces his ass on my dick and looks like he’s thoroughly enjoying himself.

“I’ve got a dick, too, you know,” Victor says.

It takes me a moment to get it.

“Jerk me off. Please”—and my anger dissipates. Victor’s never begged for anything before, and it’s what pushes me over the edge.

He turns over and lies on his back, giving me the stinky eye, and I feel like I’ve been torturing kittens. Should I suck him off or something?

I never thought that sex could be so awkward.

Victor finishes himself off and reaches for me with his come-covered hands, pulling me close. Filth is in his blood, the fucking swine. He eats in bed, too.

“That was fast,” Victor whispers sleepily and slobbers all over my ear. Damn right—he should be licking all of me.

“Shut up.”

“Hmmm. Love you.”

_Me, too._

“You’re such a fag.”

Victor laughs—what the fuck’s _he_ so happy about?

 

**Author's Note:**

> I regret the English-speaking fandom is such that this needs to be said, but: only leave the original author positive feedback. This work was written by a Russian, for Russians, about two Russians, in Russian. If you have anything negative to say, discuss it with your friends. This is NOT YOUR CONVERSATION. Or mine. We're only here as observers.
> 
> Please do encourage the original author by leaving them kudos [ here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9369440). Also, feel free to kudo me to boost the fic's popularity.
> 
> Dragging me about the quality of the translation is OK. Drag away.


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